


you give me something i can hold on to

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Humor, Phone Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11455815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: In which Sansa is technologically incompetent, Jon has tenuous self-control, and Margaery and Arya conspire against them both—for their own good, of course.(title from “867-5309/jenny,” by tommy tutone)





	you give me something i can hold on to

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: do phones ever work like this?? i have no idea, i’m not hip. forgive my lack of tech savvy, but really who's complaining about technological inaccuracies at a time like this

There are two things of which Sansa Stark is absolutely certain: One, she’s complete bollocks with her new phone; and two, she shouldn’t have had that fifth (or was it sixth?) outrageously large piña colada with Margaery.

She should have known these things would join forces to conspire against her and just… totally kick her arse. Of course, Sansa is more inclined to blame her best friend, rather than her own technological ineptitude and inability to hold her alcohol. But the point still stands.

“It’s easy, Sansa, look—” Margaery snatches her phone, which Sansa had been fiddling with through the first half of their Thursday evening cocktail hour, and scrolls through her contacts. “Let’s try—hmm, who’d be the least annoyed with a drunken phone call with no purpose except to bring you into the twenty-first century? Robb?”

“No.” Sansa takes a generous sip of her piña colada. “It’s his anniversary, I don’t want to cockblock my own brother.”

Margaery smirks at the thought. “Alright, so… Theon?”

“He’ll think I’m flirting with him.”

“Well, who’d you like to flirt with then?” Margaery ventures as she scrolls through the list again. “Harry? Eurgh, San, delete his number—”

“It _was_ deleted. On my old phone, anyway,” Sansa explains, then a crease forms between her brows. “Or I thought it was. Delete it again.”

“Already done,” Margaery assures her. Her eyes light up. “Ooh, I know who we could call. Bet you’d love a little tipsy rendezvous with Jon Snow, wouldn’t you?”

“Give me that.” Sansa makes to snatch her phone back, but Margaery holds it aloft with ease. Sansa’s reflexes aren’t the best when she’s been drinking, so she gives up with little fuss, instead choosing to stick her straw back between her teeth and glower at her friend. “ _Don’t_ call him. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

“By drunkenly professing your sexual designs upon his hot bod?”

“Yeah.”

Margaery’s laugh is raucous but nevertheless charming as ever. “I’m sure he wouldn’t protest, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, not exactly,” Sansa agrees. “He’d let me down easy, like the proper gentleman he is, and he’d pretend it never happened to spare my feelings. And then, of course, I could never see him again, and how am I supposed to fantasize about him if I don’t know which way he’s wearing his hair lately?”

“Your fantasies are far too focused on the details,” Margaery informs her, not for the first time. “ _Which_ _way he’s wearing his hair…_ For fuck’s sake, Sansa, just think about him going down on you, I promise it does the trick just as well.”

Sansa knocks her head upon the tabletop with a long-suffering groan. “It doesn’t, I’ve tried it. The hair thing’s hardly working anymore. _Nothing_ works. It’s getting to the point where I’d actually have to fuck him for it to work.”

“So let’s ring him. I’m sure he’d indulge you; he’d probably even _wear his hair_ whichever way you like,” Margaery drawls, but snaps back to seriousness when Sansa snorts incredulously. “I mean it, Sansa, he looks at you like he’s been hit over the head with a blunt object. Which I might actually do next time if he doesn’t put his tongue either back in his mouth or, you know, in your pussy, where it belongs.”

A dark chuckle escapes Sansa’s lips and she flips Margaery the bird.

In the end, they call Arya. It _is_ really quite simple—not that pressing her name in Sansa’s contacts isn’t, too, but Margaery insists that, as a working professional, Sansa is far too busy and important to be so inadequate at hands-free phone calls. Margaery simply says _Arya_ into the phone, and the girl herself picks up on the first ring.

“Am I on speaker?” Arya demands after half a second’s conversation.

“Yes,” Margaery confesses while Sansa giggles for no real reason whatsoever, “but I had to prove to Sansa that the app works.”

“Oh, so you’re both drunk, that’s nice,” Arya huffs, which only serves to make her sister laugh more. “Thursday cocktails, how could I forget? Thanks for the invite, by the way.”

“Oi, you’ve got a cheer competition tomorrow!” Sansa protests. “I didn’t want you to be hungover, ‘specially not when you’re performing against that—what is she, like your nemesis or something? What’s her name again?”

Sufficiently distracted, Arya says, “I don’t know what her real name is because she’s _insane_. Her teammates call her the Waif, and no I don’t fucking know why. I’m free next week, though, so count me in for drinks and I’ll tell you all about how I wiped the floor with my killer acrobatic skills. You’d better have some good gossip for me in exchange, though. Spending all my time with Gendry and Hot Pie leaves me starved for womanly affection. They only want to talk about rugby stats and gravy, neither of them knows who anyone’s sleeping with or anything interesting.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’d have something juicy for you if Sansa would’ve let me call Jon for her, but _noooo_ —OUCH!” Margaery yelps when Sansa whips an ice cube at her.

“Jon?” Arya echoes, then snorts. “Good luck with that one. He’s way too nervous to tell her he wants to sleep with her, let alone actually do it.”

“What?” Sansa perks up. She downs her drink and signals for another; if she’d heard her sister correctly—but perhaps the reception’s bad?—she’s going to need it. “What d’you—wait, he wants to sleep with me?”

Margaery rolls her eyes while Arya says “Uh, yeah?” like it’s obvious.

“Jon’s got remarkably little self-control, actually,” Arya continues so matter-of-factly that she could have written a thesis about his behavioral tendencies. “Reckon the only reason he hasn’t humped your leg like the dog he is is because he doesn’t think you want him to. He thinks you’re out of his league, Sansa—that’s verbatim, by the way, he said it to me last week—which, let’s face it, you’re out of everyone’s league. But if you’re willing to slum it with anyone, it should be Jon, so by all means call him up, I’m sick of his brooding.”

By the time they bid their farewells and hang up, Sansa’s head is reeling from more than the considerable amount of rum she’s had. Still, stubborn as ever, she pointedly ignores Margaery’s singsong _I told you so_ and tries to put Jon Snow out of her swimming, somersaulting mind.

That is, until later that night, when she’s safely tucked into her bedroom.

She’d stumbled in perhaps fifteen minutes ago, foregoing the overhead light in favor of her bedside lamp, which is much easier to reach once she’s collapsed atop her mattress. She kicks off her shoes so they land somewhere across the room with her discarded coat and bag, and struggles to plug in her phone, but the damn outlet’s wedged between her bed and the wall, so it’s a proper pain in the arse unless she moves her bed entirely. After a rather embarrassing effort, she manages, and drops her phone onto the pillow next to her.

The flat is quiet, save for the whirring of her ceiling fan and the sounds of late-night traffic on the other side of her open window. She and Margaery had really gone to town tonight, drinking for a straight six hours. Sansa feels the beginnings of a hangover, but can’t be bothered to leave her bed for a shower, or even a couple of premature Tylenol and diet Coke. She can barely think of it—of anything, really, not when she has much more pressing matters to consider.

The fact is, Sansa has survived many a hangover before; Jon Snow and his apparent affections for her, however, are another story entirely.

She’d had reason to doubt Margaery’s claims that Jon returned her interest, as Margaery doesn’t know him much at all and was more or less basing her insistence on her own sex-driven mind. Sansa would never begrudge her friend of her penchant for spotting sexual tension, but she wouldn’t allow herself to get carried away with the notion, either. But Arya…

Arya _knows_ Jon. The pair of them are cut from the same cloth, and they’d always gotten on like brother and sister because they understood each other in some deep, soulful kinship that the rest of them couldn’t quite grasp. And while Arya likes to take the mickey out of her sister at every available opportunity, she would never lead her astray or try to hurt her. She wouldn’t _lie_ , and so Sansa has no cause to doubt what she’d said over the phone that evening.

But what the fuck’s she supposed to _do_ about it?

 _“Ugh.”_ Sansa groans and swipes a hand over her face. She can’t think straight enough to come up with anything other than _take a walk to Jon’s flat and jump his bones in the doorway_. It’s tempting, but something tells Sansa she can’t very well seduce him if she makes him faint first. Surely such a shock would render him unconscious? Perhaps she’s flattering herself, but either way she decides that pouncing on him like a jungle cat just won’t do.

Best if she leaves the problem-solving for the morning, she decides, when her head’s not in such a fog and her sexual frustration isn’t exacerbated by her blood-alcohol levels. Speaking of… Well, she might be skipping the pre-hangover shower tonight, but there’s no reason to leave the throbbing between her legs unchecked, too.

It’s not the first time she’s gotten herself off to the thought of Jon Snow. Far from it. She’d done it a few times as a teenager because he was handsome. She’d done it more when she was at university because he was nice to her. Now she does it because she’s pretty sure she’s in love with him, or at least hopelessly smitten. And tonight in particular, she does it because her drunken brain is convinced that, once she figures out a plan, she won’t have to do it ever again because—if Arya’s to be believed, and of course she is—by end of day tomorrow, Sansa will have the real thing.

It’s the end of an era. So why not go out with a bang?

She slides one hand up her shirt and the other to the front of her jeans, imagining that her own soft hands are Jon’s callused ones. She licks her lips and pretends it’s his tongue on her mouth, begging entry; she pretends the rum on her breath is the gin that he prefers. Her own fingers are deft at her button and zipper, but she fumbles because she likes to think Jon would fumble, at least a little.

She works one hand over her breast while the other dips into her panties, because she thinks Jon would pay attention to every bit of her. He’s considerate like that. Mindful. She wishes he were here now, kissing her neck between filthy words she longs to hear in his gruff, northern accent. He’s always so collected, so put-together, that she’s dying to make him go wild all over her. She wants him with her, and she wants to make him lose his mind because of it.

It doesn’t take long for Sansa to work herself up; the thought that she has to do this on her own only piques her frustration, but it makes her satisfaction come more quickly, too. She thinks that she could have Jon by this time tomorrow, if only she can figure out _how_ , but the fantasy feels that much more real and she’s determined to ride it out.

She’s close and the flat is quiet. She can’t help it and there’s no one around to hear her, anyway. So she screws her eyes shut, conjures his face, his hands, his mouth, and the rough way she bets he’d breathe if she could get him into her bed, and she starts saying his name. Moaning it, sighing it, sobbing it between ragged breaths, telling the picture of him in her mind’s eye that he makes her feel so good, that she’s almost there, telling him to go harder and faster and—and—

“Sansa?”

She jerks up, hands flying out of her clothes even though she’s still on the cusp of an orgasm. But the sound of another voice—a far too familiar voice, the voice she’d been playing in her head during the entirety of this little tryst—in the room with her had just about shocked her out of her climactic bliss.

The light of her phone catches her eye, and panic replaces the delicious warmth that had been pouring through her veins.

_Oh god oh god oh god oh god—_

That app. That stupid goddamn app. She’d said Jon’s name nearly a thousand times and her stupid, traitorous, _fucking_ phone—right there on the pillow next to her—had called him. Oh, fuck, how much had he heard?

A lot, Sansa thinks. A whole lot of _everything_ , probably. But that doesn’t mean she has to admit to it. She unplugs the phone, presses it to her ear, and says in a voice far too choked for her liking but she’s got bigger problems now, anyway, “Um, hey, Jon. What’s up?”

“I, uh, don’t know? Nothing.” Jon, for his part, sounds rather choked, too. He tries to cough away the roughness that makes Sansa’s skin tingle, but he’s still rather clearly… unmanned, Sansa decides, if only to make herself feel better. “You called me.”

“Yeah?” Sansa checks the call time and nearly throws up her heart. Three and a half minutes. He definitely heard a whole lot of everything. _Son of a—_ “Erm. Huh. That’s weird.”

“Yeah?” Jon repeats. He clears his throat again. “Did you, um, did you need something?”

 _I sure did. Almost had it, too_ , grumbles an internal voice that Sansa is sure originates somewhere in her orgasm-denied clit. She’s not going to say _that_ to him, but… Well. Three and a half minutes. There’s not much she can say to undo that damage. But in retrospect, jumping his bones in the doorway of his flat really isn’t such a bad idea; it would have been preferable to this, that’s for sure.

“I, um, I got this new app?” she explains uselessly, babbling because her rum-addled mind is telling her to go for it. “On my phone. You know I can’t work a phone to save my life, so I guess it—I accidentally rang you.”

True enough. She certainly hadn’t done this on purpose. Calling Jon Snow in the middle of a fantasy he’s starring in hadn’t quite made it on her “How to Make Jon Fall in Love with Me” list.

“Arya mentioned that,” Jon tells her. He sounds uncomfortable, but not like… _offended_ uncomfortable, Sansa notes. More like—okay, maybe she’s projecting here, but— _aroused_ uncomfortable. “She texted me earlier and, uh—she said, well, she said a lot, actually, I’ve got a fair few paragraphs from her. I thought I’d call you myself tomorrow, but you, uh, you called me first so…”

“Mhmm.” _Oh god oh god oh god oh god…_ This is so not good, but she’s still pressing her thighs together to soothe the rejuvenated ache that Jon’s voice inspires.

Sansa doesn’t dare say more, and she’s too caught up in the rough way that Jon’s breathing on the other end of the phone—the rough way she’d imagined, night after night and a few afternoons and the occasional morning shower—to think of anything substantial. She’d rather drown in the awkward silence between them, anyway.

But Jon has other ideas.

“I—um, listen, Sansa, I—” There’s a long, arduous sort of sigh, and suddenly he snaps. “Look, I know I should’ve hung up when I realized— _fuck_ , Sansa, but I couldn’t, and I know this is a _monumental_ invasion of your trust and your privacy, but I’m outside your flat and I just—fuck. Fuck. Would you let me in?”

“You’re _outside_?” But Sansa’s already off her bed and down the hall.

“Yeah,” Jon says, and Sansa hears the low rumble of his voice over the phone and beyond her front door. “Yeah, San, I’m sorry, I just—I wasn’t even thinking, you were driving me so fucking crazy, I had to—”

 _Well_ , Sansa thinks as she whips open the door to see a disheveled, bespectacled Jon in a henley and sweatpants, clearly having jumped out of bed to get to her, _guess Arya was right about his lack of self-control, then._

Her sister’s point is only further proven when, all at once, Jon steps purposefully over the threshold and takes Sansa’s waist in his hands and her mouth with his. Their phones fall from their hands with a loud _thunk-thunk_ on the floor at their feet, but Jon’s too busy kicking the door shut and pressing Sansa against it for either of them to care.

“God, you taste even sweeter than you sound,” Jon murmurs against her lips, one hand at her neck and the other dipping to the crook of her knee. He bends just enough to hitch her leg over his hip, then straightens and dives his tongue into her mouth. “What were you thinking about, Sansa? What’ve I got to do to make you say my name like that again?”

“Hands,” Sansa manages to gasp while Jon sucks at her neck. “Get your hands on me, Snow.”

Jon catches her earlobe between his grin. “Whatever you say, Stark.”

She’s still wet from her own earlier attentions, the snap and zip of her jeans still undone, so it’s easy for Jon to slip his hand over her panties to feel what the mere thought of him had done to her. He knows why she’s all mussed up, and that, coupled with her damp warmth, makes him groan and grind his erection into her. It’s only fair, he reasons, for her to know what she’s done to him, too, and _fuck_ if she doesn’t feel like heaven against him.

“Jesus Christ, Sansa,” he swears when he shoves her panties aside to touch her. “Fuck. I did this?”

“ _Christ_ , Jon—” She arches into his hand, her shoulders jutting painfully into the door but she can’t feel anything but his fingers on her, in her. “You do this to me _every night_.”

He whimpers—he actually fucking whimpers. He has the half-mad thought that a growl, at least, would have been more manly, but Sansa seems to like his whimpering, so he tosses all of his preconceived notions of masculinity out the window and gives in to her.

“How do you do it?” he asks against her ear, and Sansa arches into him again because this is so, so much more than she’d imagined half a million times over. “How do you like it, Sansa, tell me what to do.”

She swallows, hard, but at this point she couldn’t regulate her breathing with a goddam inhaler so she stops trying. Let him knock the air from her lungs because that’s what she’d been after for far too long.

“Do that thing with your thumb again—yeah, _yeah_ , like that—” Sansa’s toes curl and nearly lift her off her feet, but Jon’s holding her fast. He could keep her there with his words alone.

“What were you doing earlier?” he wants to know, all the while picking up the pace to hit the momentum she likes. His mouth is open on her temple, then her cheek, along her jaw… “Tell me what you were doing when you called me.”

She can’t very well choke out a coherent sentence, which Jon knows, thank you very much, so instead she takes his free hand and guides it up her shirt. His rough palms are such a delicious contrast to her smooth stomach and soft tits that she swears she’ll catch on fire before this night’s through. His hand shoves up into her bra and he swallows her moan with another rough, deep, frenzied kiss.

It takes another rotation of his fingers inside of her, another jut of his thumb, another thrust of his hips into hers, and Jon’s got Sansa coming with his name on her lips. And, god, it’s better than hearing her nearly come apart over the phone, because now his hands are on her and he can ride her back down and rile her back up and he could fuck her against the front door if she asked him to. He could go down on her in the hall, on the couch, in her bed, everywhere he’s imagined when he’s alone and thinking of her.

Jon kisses her again, drawing out her taste and the sighs rolling off her tongue. Her hands smooth over his shoulders, down his stomach to the waistband of his sweats, and if it’s possible she pulls him ever closer.

“Okay,” Sansa begins when her body is calm and loose and tingling. She slumps back against the door, bringing Jon with her so she might press her swollen lips to his throat. “Okay, so I might not hate my phone so much, after all… even though I think I might’ve broken it.”

“Nah.” Jon nudges his foot against their phones, still intact on the floor. “Good thing, too, otherwise I dunno how I’d call you tomorrow.”

“No need.” She pushes off the door, takes Jon by the shirtfront, and drags him down the hall to her room. She _had_ intended to get him in her bed, after all, and she’s not letting him leave until she gets her way. “You’re staying over.”

Jon laughs, teasing her even as he lets her push him around, “That’s not how the first date usually works.”

“Yeah, and most people might hang up before three and a half minutes of accidental phone sex,” Sansa challenges. She yanks him into her room, almost tripping over her earlier discarded shoes, and straddles him on the bed she’d been so lonely in for too long. “Let’s call it even, and I’ll take you for breakfast when I’m finished with you.”

“Agreed,” Jon says, his voice low and rough all over again, and he surges up to take her mouth once more.

(They both make a mental note to leave rave reviews for that damnable, traitorous phone app online.)


End file.
